David L. Robbins - Endworld 23 - Yellowstone Run

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2024-12-23 0 0 367.73KB 180 页 5.9玖币
侵权投诉
Scanned by unsung hero.
Proofed more or less by Highroller.
Made prettier by use of EBook Design Group Stylesheet.
Yellowstone Run by
David L. Robbins
PROLOGUE
There was something out mere.
Something lurking in the tall timber.
Eagle Feather paused in the act of chopping wood for the fire, his right
arm upraised, his tomahawk gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, and
gazed at the surrounding forest, his keen brown eyes scrutinizing every
shadow. The feeling of being watched was stronger now than ever before,
and he frowned when he failed to detect any movement in the pine trees.
"Is something wrong?"
Putting a smile on his face, Eagle Feather turned at the sound of his
wife's melodious voice and looked at the woman he loved more than life
itself, "What could be wrong?" he responded, hoping he conveyed a
lighthearted attitude, he didn't want to worry Morning Dew or the
children. Yet.
"I don't know," she said uncertainly, staring at the woods. "You seem
troubled."
Eagle Feather lowered the tomahawk and pretended to inspect its edge.
"You are imagining things."
"If you say so," Morning Dew said, and returned to the task of
preparing the fish their sons had caught an hour ago for their supper. She
glanced at him once reproachfully.
Knowing that his wife of 12 years could intuitively sense when he was
troubled, and annoyed at himself for not confiding in her, Eagle Feather
continued to trim the limbs he had collected, removing the thinner stems
to be used as kindling and chopping the larger branches into manageable
sections. He strained his ears to catch the slightest sound from the forest,
but all he heard were birds and squirrels and the whispering of the breeze.
How could he justify alarming Morning Dew when all he had to go on was
a vague feeling?
Youthful laughter filled the air, and a moment later two boys came
running around the family tipi, which was situated on the north bank of
the gently flowing stream, and halted, giggling and shoving one another.
Straightening, Eagle Feather smiled at his sons. The oldest, Little
Mountain, was ten years old. Black Elk, who strongly resembled his
mother, was only eight. "What are you two up to?"
"We want to go hunt deer," Little Mountain declared.
"Hunt deer," Black Elk echoed, nodding vigorously.
"We already have fish for our meal. We don't need a deer," Eagle
Feather said, resolving to keep his sons close to the camp.
"But mother said I could have new moccasins," Little " Mountain
stated, squaring his slim shoulders.
"Me too," Black Elk added.
"I want you to play near our camp," Eagle Feather told them.
"But there's nothing to do here," Little Mountain protested.
"I can find something for you to do," Eagle Feather commented sternly.
"I thought we were supposed to have fun," Little Mountain said, clearly
disappointed, and sighed.
Eagle Feather became aware of his wife's intent scrutiny, and he
decided to compromise before she grew even more suspicious. He had
promised the boys this would be a fun-filled trip to the old National Park,
and he saw a way to kill two birds with one stone, to allay his fears and
ensure the forest was safe for the boys. "I'll tell you what. You finish
chopping this wood, and when I come back you can go deer hunting."
"Where are you going, Father?" Black Elk asked.
"To find a handful of leaves."
"What?" the boy responded, puzzled. His older brother whispered in his
ear and they both laughed.
"Here," Eagle Feather said, and handed the tomahawk to Little
Mountain. "Try not to cut your foot off."
"I won't," Little Mountain replied, eagerly grabbing the handle.
Deliberately avoiding his wife's gaze, Eagle Feather walked to their tipi
and went inside to retrieve his Winchester. He emerged, worked the lever
to insert a round into the chamber, and headed for the woods.
"Be careful," Morning Dew advised.
Eagle Feather looked back at her and nodded. "Always. Keep your rifle
handy in case a bear should show up. I saw grizzly sign yesterday."
"I'll keep a sharp watch," she promised.
Cradling his Winchester, Eagle Feather advanced into the trees,
entering a somber domain of shadows and dank scents, where his
footsteps padded noiselessly on the matted carpet of pine needles and
spongy vegetation. This area of the ancient wonderland, bordering the
Lamar Valley, was always verdant in the summer and early fait. Spruce,
Douglas' fir, and lodgepole pine were especially numerous. A scratching
noise came from overhead, and he gazed up to observe a Steller's jay
hopping from limb to limb. Like most of the wildlife they had
encountered, the big blue and black bird displayed no fear at his presence.
Pressing onward, Eagle Feather penetrated deeper into the forest,
traveling SO yards from the camp. He saw several sparrows, a red squirrel,
and a jackrabbit. The rabbit bounded away, performing fifteen-foot leaps
with ease, but otherwise the animals were going about their daily business
and not displaying any agitation whatsoever. And surely, Eagle Feather
reasoned, there would be an undercurrent of unrest in the forest if danger
was present.
Perhaps he was imagining things, not Morning Dew.
Maybe spotting those grizzly tracks had unnerved him more than he
knew. Maybe, since they were so far from Kalispell and home, since they
were alone in an uninhabited wilderness, he was allowing unfounded
apprehension to get the better of him. After all, he had spent most of his
life as a hunter and a trapper. He knew all the habits of the animals in the
woods.None of them, even the grizzly, were unduly menacing if a person
used common sense and took adequate precautions. Most animals wisely
shied away from man.
Except for the mutations.
The thought troubled him. If there were mutations in the Park, then his
family was in grave jeopardy. But as far as he knew, neither a nuclear
missile nor a chemical-warfare weapon had struck within hundreds of
miles of the area. The Park had survived World War Three virtually
unscathed. And without the radiation or chemical toxins to poison and
derange the entire biological chain, the likelihood of mutations flourishing
was extremely slim.
Eagle Feather skirted a tree and halted on the rim of a low rise. Thirty
feet below lay an oval spring. Curious, wanting to taste the water to
determine if it was as good as the delicious stream water, he walked down
the gentle slope. A six-inch strip of soft, muddy earth ringed the spring,
and he knelt next to the strip and sank his left hand under the surface to
scoop some water to his mouth.
Only then did he see the tracks.
Puzzled, he froze with his hand halfway to his lips, and regarded the
pair of unique prints in the mud to his left. They were the strangest prints
he'd ever seen, a curious combination of human and bestial traits.
Approximately 14 inches in length and six inches wide, they resembled a
naked human footprint except for the fact that each toe had a four-inch
nail similar to the typical claw on the toe of a bear. He let the water trickle
from his palm and reached out to touch the track. From the softness of the
mud and the cohesive texture of the print, he judged that the pair had
been made within the last 30 minutes. Suddenly his mind blared a
warning.
Strange prints?
Combination of human and bestial traits?
Eagle Feather straightened and turned from the spring, and even as he
rotated a piercing scream rent the tranquility of the forest, coming from
the direction of the tipi.
Morning Dew and the boys!
A wave of fear washed over him, and Eagle Feather sprinted up the
slope and took off at full speed toward the camp, vaulting logs and
low-lying boulders, darting around the bigger obstacles, his blood racing
faster than his feet.
More screams sounded, the unmistakable cries of the boys.
Eagle Feather fairly flew over the terrain, oblivious to the limbs and
brush that snatched at his buckskins and scratched his skin. He realized
that he'd been right all along, that there had been something in the woods,
a mutation, one of the vile creatures despised by his entire tribe, by every
Flathead Indian. Mutations were a blight on the planet, a consequence of
the white man tampering with forces better left alone. The Flatheads
killed each mutation they found, and large tracts of the former state of
Montana had been cleared of the repulsive horrors.
The screaming abruptly ceased.
No! Eagle Feather shrieked in his mind, and he goaded his flagging
muscles to increased speed. He'd already covered 40 yards. The tipi should
be in sight at any moment. Seconds later he saw the camp and his breath
caught in his throat.
Someone or something had torn the tipi down, had ripped the buffalo
hide to ribbons and snapped the support poles into pieces. Their personal
effects had been torn apart and scattered all about. The horses, which had
been tied to the left of the tipi, were gone. And there wasn't a living soul in
sight.
Eagle Feather dashed into the ruined camp and halted, glancing wildly
around for his wife and sons. He spied her rifle lying in the grass to his
right, its stock splintered. The attack must have occurred so swiftly that
she had been unable to get off a single shot. Frantic, he began hunting for
tracks, for blood, for any sign to tell him what had happened to his family.
On the bank of the stream he found the clue he needed.
Strange tracks, exactly like those at the spring, the toes pointing to the
south, were clearly visible.
Eagle Feather plunged into the knee-high water and quickly crossed to
the far side. There, distinct in the damp earth in the water's edge, were
more of the tracks, lots more, all heading lo the south.
What were they?
He ran into the forest, his gaze glued to the ground, seeking tracks or
partial prints, anything to indicate the specific direction the things had
taken. After 20 yards he found a footprint angling to the southwest and he
sprinted in that direction. A vague recollection gnawed at his mind, and
he experienced a peculiar feeling that he should know what the things
were he pursued.
The creatures were still bearing to the southwest.
Eagle Feather had no way of estimating their rate of travel. He
hoped—he prayed—he could overtake them before nightfall. Since he
hadn't seen any blood or discovered any bodies, he derived comfort from
knowing Morning Dew, Little Thunder, and Black Elk were probably still
alive.
But who, or what, had abducted them? And why?
The minutes dragged by. Eagle Feather's leg muscles began to ache, but
he ignored the discomfort. He had no intention of resting until he caught
up with his family. Why, he berated himself, had he ever taken them so far
from Kalispell? Why had he ventured outside of Flathead territory?
Technically speaking, northwestern Wyoming was part of the Civilized
Zone, and the Civilized Zone and the Flatheads were allies in the
Federation. But no one lived in the Park anymore. Anyone with half a
brain preferred to live closer to civilization, or what was left of it 106 years
after the nuclear holocaust.
Eagle Feather glanced up at the sun, estimating the time remaining
until dark. It was only the first week of September, so he would have four
or five hours of daylight left in which lo rescue his loved ones.
The trees began to thin out, and the countryside became rockier and
intersected with deep gorges, affording plenty of places to hide. The rocky
soil would make tracking a lot more difficult.
Frustrated, Eagle Feather cast about for additional tracks.
Part of a heel stood out near a scrawny shrub.
Eagle Feather's eyes narrowed. The devils had changed direction again
and were now bearing to the southwest. Why were they altering their
course so frequently? Did they know he was after them? Were they striving
to shake him off their trail, or was this typical of their behavior? He
spotted a ravine up ahead, toward which the tracks appeared to be
heading, and he tightened his hold on the Winchester.
The ravine was a perfect site for an ambush.
Twenty feet from the gap in the rocks he abruptly stopped, his skin
tingling, his eyes on the strip of buckskin blouse lying two yards away.
Morning Dew!
He dashed to the strip and scooped the soft material into his left hand,
examining it closely. There could be no doubt. The material had been
ripped from the shoulder of Morning Dew's blouse. Rage made him grip
the buckskin until his knuckles turned white, and then he tucked the strip
under his belt and hastened into the ravine.
On both sides reared towering walls of rock. Perched on the top were
boulders of different sizes, ranging from a few feet in diameter to gigantic
slabs ten feet across.
His prudence dashed to bits by the finding of the material. Eagle
Feather jogged 25 feet into the steep-sided ravine before he awoke to his
mistake. He halted and gazed up at the rim, then back at the opening, and
decided he was being foolish. If he acted rashly, if he was killed, who
would save those he held most dear?
A small stone clattered down from high above.
Eagle Feather looked up, and his veins seemed to transform into ice
when he beheld the hulking, bearish figures on the brink of the ravine,
perhaps 30 yards distant on the right-hand side. They were too far up, and
the curve of the rock wall served to obstruct his view, so he couldn't see
them plainly. He glimpsed a dozen huge, hairy forms milling about the
rim, heard a rumbling noise, and then the boulders started to fall.
They were causing a rock slide!
Eagle Feather took one look at the avalanche of boulders and rocks
hurtling toward the bottom of the ravine, and whirled. He darted toward
the opening, his ears registering the mighty crash of the larger boulders as
they struck the stone walls and slammed to the ground. The whole ravine
reverberated with the din. Several boulders thudded down within a few
feet of his flying heels, and the ground itself shook.
A rock smacked against his left shoulder.
The opening was now only six feet away. He took another stride, then
leaped, his arms outstretched, the Winchester in his right hand. A heavy
object rammed against his legs, but an instant later he was out of the gap
and tumbling a few yards to slam up against a stunted tree. He shoved
erect and stared in horror at the boulders and rocks now blocking the gap,
tons and tons of stone no one could budge.
They had cut him off from his family!
Eagle Feather stepped to the left, intending to seek a way around the
ravine, when a chilling sound wafted down from overhead, the sound of
deep, guttural laughter, echoing from wall to wall, mocking him, making
him realize the bearish figures had just been toying with him.
Bearish figures?
Suddenly the amorphous memory that had eluded him solidified with
startling clarity, and Eagle Feather knew the identity of the creatures. The
knowledge swamped him in an emotional mire of sneer terror. He gaped
at the rim, thinking of his beloved wife and sons in the clutches of those
fiends, and shivered.
CHAPTER ONE
"Daddy?"
"Hmmmmm ?"
"I think I have a nibble."
The lean man attired in buckskins opened his blue eyes and gazed idly
at the bobber attached to his son's fishing line, which dangled in the moat
not two yards from their feet, "Are you sure?"
"Yep. I saw the bobber move," the boy stated with a conviction belying
his almost five years of age.
Sighing, the man sat up and stretched. He ran his right hand through
his blond hair, then stroked his blond mustache. "Why don't you reel in
your line slowly," he advised. "Let's take a gander at what you've hooked."
"A what?"
"A gander. That means to take a look."
"Mom's right," Ringo said, starting to turn the reel. Like his father, he
wore buckskins. Like his father, he had blond hair and striking blue eyes.
Unlike his father, he did not wear a pair of pearl-handled Colt Python
revolvers around his waist.
"What's your mom right about?" the gunman asked.
"She was talking to Uncle Geronimo the other night."
"Uh-oh."
"And I heard what they said," Ringo disclosed, carefully drawing the
line into the reel.
The gunman leaned toward his son. "What did they say?"
"I can't tell you."
"Why the blazes not?"
"Because it's a secret," Ringo said, and grinned.
Leaning back on his elbows, the gunman regarded the boy critically.
"Well, this is a fine how-do-you-do."
Ringo stopped reeling and stared at his dad. "A what?"
"A how-do-you-do. It's something that happens that you don't want to
happen."
The boy grinned. "Yep. Uncle Geronimo has the right idea."
"What did that mangy Injun say?"
"I can't tell you. It's a secret."
"Are you tellin' me that your mom and Uncle Geronimo are both in on
the same secret?"
Ringo smiled. "Yep."
"It really gets my goat when those two gang up on me.'*
"I wish I could tell you what they said, but I promised Mom I wouldn't."
"That's okay, son," the gunman said. "If you gave your word, then I
expect you to keep it. Always remember that a man is only as good as his
word. I pride myself on the fact that I've never broken mine."
"Never?"
"Never. So if you don't want to tell me, that's okay. If you'd rather let
your Uncle Geronimo make my life miserable again, that's okay. And if
you'd rather hurt my feelings than break your word, I understand."
Ringo lowered his fishing pole and stared at his father for several
seconds. "Do you want me to tell you their secret?"
"What do you think?"
"You've always told me to keep my promises."
"So?"
"So I think you're trying to trick me to see if I'll break my word," Ringo
摘要：

Scannedbyunsunghero.ProofedmoreorlessbyHighroller.MadeprettierbyuseofEBookDesignGroupStylesheet.YellowstoneRunbyDavidL.RobbinsPROLOGUETherewassomethingoutmere.Somethinglurkinginthetalltimber.EagleFeatherpausedintheactofchoppingwoodforthefire,hisrightarmupraised,histomahawkgleamingintheafternoonsunli...

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